University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Cumlongan Castle.
Mary Douglas and May Morison.
May Morison.
This grief 's a most seducing thing—all ladies
Who wish to be most gallantly wooed must sit
And sigh to the starlight on the turret top,
Saunter by waterfalls, and court the moon
For a goodly gift of paleness. Faith! I'll cast
My trick of laughing to the priest, and wooe
Man, tender man, by sighing.

Mary Douglas.
The ash bough
Shall drop with honey, and the leaf of the linn
Shall cease its shaking, when that merry eye
Knows what a tear-drop means. Be mute! be mute!

May Morison.
When gallant knights shall scale a dizzy wall
For the love of a laughing lady, I shall know
What sighs will bring i' the market.
(Sings.)

Mary D.
No tidings of thee yet—my love, my love;
Didst thou but live as thou camest yesternight
In vision'd beauty to my side, 'twere worth
The world from east to west.

May Morison.
O lady! lady!
This grief becomes you rarely; 'tis a dress
That costs at most a tear o' the eye—the sweetest
Handmaid that beauty has. How thou wouldst weep
To see some fair knight, on whose helmet bright
A score of dames stuck favours—see him leave
His barb'd steed standing in the wood to preach
Thee out of thy virgin purgatory, to taste
The joys of wedded heaven.

(A knock heard at the gate.)
Mary Douglas.
(Exit May Morison.)

Enter Halbert Comyne.
Comyne.
Now, beauteous lady,
Joy to your meditations: your thoughts hallow
Whate'er they touch; and aught you think on 's blest.

Mary Douglas.
I think on thee, but thou 'rt not therefore bless'd.
What must I thank for this unwish'd-for honour?

Com.
Thyself thank, gentle one: thou art the cause
Why I have broken slumbers and sad dreams,
Why I forget high purposes, and talk
Of nought but cherry lips.

Mary Douglas.
Now were you, sir,
Some unsunn'd stripling, you might quote to me
These cast-off saws of shepherds.

Comyne.
The war trump
Less charms my spirit than the sheep-boy's whistle.
My barbed steed stamps in his stall, and neighs
For lack of his arm'd rider. Once I dream'd
Of spurring battle steeds, of carving down
Spain's proudest crests to curious relics; and
I cleft in midnight vision the gold helm
Of the proud Prince of Parma.

Mary Douglas.
Thanks, my lord;
You are blest in dreams, and a most pretty teller
Of tricks in sleep—and so your dream is told:
Then, my fair sir, good night.

Comyne.
You are too proud,
Too proud, fair lady; yet your pride becomes you;
Your eyes lend you divinity. Unversed
Am I in love's soft silken words—unversed
In the cunning way to win a gentle heart.
When my heart heaves as if 't would crack my corslet,
I'm tongue-tied with emotion, and I lose
Her that I love for lack of honey'd words

Mary D.
Go, school that rank simplicity of thine:
Learn to speak falsely in love's gilded terms;
Go learn to sugar o'er a hollow heart;
And learn to shower tears, as the winter cloud,
Bright, but all frozen; make thy rotten vows
Smell like the rose of July. Go, my lord;
Thou art too good for this world.

Comyne.
My fair lady,
Cease with this bitter but most pleasant scoffing;
For I am come upon a gentle suit,
Which I can ill find terms for.

Mary Douglas.
Name it not.
Think it is granted; go now. Now farewell:
I 'm sad, am sick—a fearful faintness comes
With a rush upon my heart; so now, farewell.

Comyne.
Lo! how the lilies chace the ruddy rose—
What a small waist is this!

Mary Douglas.
That hand! That hand!
There 's red blood on that right hand, and that brow:
There 's motion in my father's statue; see,
Doth it not draw the sword? Unhand me, sir.

Comyne.
Thou dost act to the life; but scare not me
With vision'd blood-drops, and with marble swords;
I 'm too firm stuff, thou 'lt find, to start at shadows.

Mary D.
Now were thy lips with eloquence to drop,
As July's wind with balm; wert thou to vow
Till all the saints grew pale; kneel i' the ground
Till the green grass grew about thee; had thy brow
The crowned honour of the world upon it;
I'd scorn thee—spurn thee.

Comyne.
Lady, scorn not me.
O! what a proud thing is a woman, when
She has red in her cheek. Lady, when I kneel down
And court the bridal gift of that white hand
Thou wavest so disdainfully, why then
I give thee leave to scorn me. I have hope
To climb a nobler, and as fair a tree,
And pull far richer fruit. So scorn not me:
I dream of no such honour as thou dread'st.

Mary Douglas.
And what darest thou to dream of?

Comyne.
Of thee, lady.
Of winning thy love on some bloom'd violet bank,
When nought shines save the moon, and where no proud
Priest dares be present: lady, that 's my dream.

Mary D.
Let it be still a dream, then; lest I beg
From heaven five minutes' manhood, to make thee
Dream it when thou art dust.

Comyne.
Why, thou heroine,
Thou piece o' the rarest metal e'er nature stamp'd
Her chosen spirits from, now I do love thee,
Do love thee much for this; I love thee more
Than loves a soldier the grim looks of war,
As he wipes his bloody brow.

Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, unseen.
Sir Marmaduke.
(aside.)
What! what is this?
She whom I love best—he whom I hate worst?—
Is this an airy pageant of the fiends?

Mary Douglas.
(Aside.)
Down! down! ye proud drops of my bosom, be
To my dull brain obedient. (To Comyne.)
My good lord,
Much gladness may this merry mood of yours
With a poor maiden bring you. I thank you much
For lending one dull hour of evening wings
To fly away so joyous.

Sir Marmaduke.
(Aside.)
Mine ears have
Turn'd traitors to my love; else they receive
A sound more dread than doomsday. Oh! thou false—
Thou did'st seem purer than the undropt dew,
Chaste as the unsunn'd snow-drops' buds disclosed
Unto the frosty stars; and truer far
Than blossom to the summer, or than light
Unto the morning. And dost thou smile too,
And smile on him so lovingly? bow too
That brow of alabaster? Woman—Woman.

Comyne.
O! for a month of such sweet gentle chiding,
From such ripe tempting lips! Now, fair young lady,
As those two bright eyes love the light, and love
To see proud man adore them, cast not off
For his rough manner, and his unpruned speech,
A man who loves you. Gentle one, we'll live
As pair'd doves do among the balmy boughs.

Sir Marmaduke.
(Aside.)
Painted perdition, dost thou smile at this?

Mary Douglas.
This is a theme I love so well, I wish
For God's good day-light to it; so farewell.

Comyne.
An hour aneath the new risen moon to wooe,
Is worth a summer of sunshine: a fair maid
Once told me this; and lest I should forget it,
Kiss'd me, and told it twice.

Sir Marmaduke.
(Aside.)
Dare but to touch
Her little finger, faithless as she is;
Yea, or her garment's hem—My father's sword,
Thou hadst thy temper for a nobler purpose;
So keep thy sheath: for did I smite him now,
Why men would say, that for a father's blood
Mine slept like water 'neath the winter ice;
But when a weak sweet woman chafed my mood,
And made sport of her vows, then my blood rose,
And with my spirit burning on my brow
I sprang wi' my blade to his bosom. So then, sleep
Fast in thy sheath. Before that lovely face,
Those lips I've kiss'd so fondly, and that neck
Round which mine arms have hung, I could not strike
As the son of my father should.

Mary Douglas.
Now, fair good night,
To thee, most courteous sir. I seek the chace
From dark Cumlongan to green Burnswark top,
With hawk and hound, before to-morrow's sun
Has kiss'd the silver dew. So be not found
By me alone beneath the greenwood bough;
Lest I should wooe thee as the bold dame did
The sire of good King Robert.

(Exit.)
Comyne.
Gentle dreams
To thee, thou sweet one: gladly would I quote
The say of an old shepherd: mayst thou dream
Of linking me within thy lily arms;
And leave my wit, sweet lady, to unravel 't.

(Exit.)
Sir Marmaduke.
And now there's nought for me in this wide world
That 's worth the wishing for. For thee, false one,
The burning hell of an inconstant mind
Is curse enough; and so we part in peace.
And now for thee—I name thee not; thy name,
Save for thy doom, shall never pass my lips—
Depart untouch'd: there's something in this place
Which the stern temper that doth spill men's blood
Is soften'd by. We 're doom'd once more to meet,
And never part in life.

(Exit.)